


Science Wins

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Human, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Hawke, The Author Regrets Nothing, nerd fenris, science vs magic, sort of, the author is a dork, unrequited hawke/anders, variant on the cavemen vs astronauts debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke stares at the three-word phrase that’s going to ruin his day, his week and – possibly – his life, inscribed in large, square letters on the otherwise pristine whiteboard: science vs magic.</p><p>‘Oh god,’ he says again.</p><p>He’s going to need more coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Science Wins

‘No,’ says Hawke, when he sees what’s written on the board in the philosophy lounge. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Two hours too late, sweetheart,’ says Isabela. ‘They’ve already seen it.’

‘Oh _god_.’ Hawke falls wearily into an armchair. ‘What did I ever do to you?’

‘Would you like an itemised list, or just the edited highlights?’

‘I would like for _that_ –’ he gestures sharply at the board, ‘– to be stricken from the record.’

‘And _I_ would like to re-enact that photoshoot Dita von Teese did with Scarjo, but sadly, it’s not going to happen.’

‘I regret our friendship.’

‘Lies.’

Hawke stares at the three-word phrase that’s going to ruin his day, his week and – possibly – his life, inscribed in large, square letters on the otherwise pristine whiteboard: _science vs magic._

‘Oh _god_ ,’ he says again.

He’s going to need more coffee.

 

*

 

‘Really?’ growls Fenris, whose real name is so much less fitting than that of a monstrous, world-ending wolf as to have been wholly superseded. ‘You’re really going with magic?’

‘Of course,’ says Anders. ‘Why the hell wouldn’t I?’

‘Common sense? Logic? Oh, wait. I see the problem.’ Fenris smiles his sharpest smile. ‘Forgive me.’

‘If magic existed,’ Anders says, somewhat testily, ‘it would, by definition, trump science.’

‘ _If_ magic existed, which it doesn’t,’ Fenris snaps, ‘it would be part of science, and therefore subject to scientific laws, like everything else in the universe.’

‘This will end in tears or violence,’ Varric murmurs.

‘Bet you twenty it’s tears,’ says Isabela.

‘I’ll take that action.’

‘Done.’

They shake on it, grinning.

Hawke groans into his hands.

 

*

 

‘Any magician could be a scientist,’ Anders says, on day two of the _science vs magic_ debate, ‘but not every scientist could be a magician.’

Fenris snorts. ‘Which presupposes magic is an inborn talent, not a learned skill, but by all means, explain why you think it matters.’

‘I never said that.’

‘No, but you implied it. Why else would magic be less accessible?’

‘By being harder to master.’

‘Oh, that is just –’ Fenris half-rises from his chair, but stalls midway, long fingers digging into the cushioned armrests. (Not that Hawke is looking at his fingers.) He sits again, scoffs, ‘– a hypothetical stacked on a hypothetical. Why not make magic impossible for everyone you deem unworthy, while you’re at it? Why not simply declare yourself right _because reasons_?’ His lips curl on the phrase.

‘You do realise,’ Hawke says, in a futile bid for peace, ‘that you don’t actually have to debate this? Just because Isabela writes a thing on the faculty board –’

‘I never said it was harder for _everyone_ to master,' Anders says, smirking. ‘Just for scientists.’

Fenris glares daggers at him. ‘And why is that, pray tell?’

‘Rigid thinking,’ says Anders, turning back to the coffee machine. ‘Scientists think in rules, but mages –’

‘ _Mages_?’ crows Fenris, delighted by the slip. ‘I’m sorry – am I speaking now to Professor Anders, or to _Justice_?’

Anders flushes splotchy red, and Hawke, who’s much more of an asshole than he typically likes to admit, can’t quite smother his laughter. Three weeks back, Isabela had triumphantly revealed that Anders – skinny decaf-drinking, hipster-dressing Anders; Anders, the goddamn _ethicist_ – routinely LARPs on the weekend as a mage called Justice. Thus far, the comedic irony remains undiminished.

‘As though your magic game doesn’t have _rules_ ,’ says Fenris, viciously self-satisfied. ‘As though the parameters of such a hypothetical system are, of course, inviolable absolutes.’

‘And who’s to say they can’t be, as it’s hypothetical?’ Anders rallies, facing him. ‘Magic, by definition, is outside science – whatever rules it might have, or doesn’t have, aren’t scientific rules.’

‘Only because it doesn’t exist! If it did, it would be subject to science, because science is, _by definition_ , the study of everything.’

Hawke interrupts without conscious thought, because Hawke is, evidently, a masochist. (As if his taste in men wasn’t proof enough.) ‘So what this really hinges on is whether the magic is native or introduced. I mean, if –’ he falters slightly as both Anders and Fenris stare at him, ‘– ah, if you’re talking about a world where magic is new – say, if it sprung up on Earth overnight – then of course it’s going to upset science, because we won’t know how to account for it, and all the ways we understand the world depend on it not existing. But if magic has _always_ been known – and if science _also_ exists – then it seems reasonable to assume that magic must be understood within some sort of scientific framework, or else you couldn’t reconcile the two.’

‘And what if science is the newcomer, hm?’ Anders says, shitstirring.

Hawke blinks. ‘You mean science as a function, or science as a discipline? Because if the former, you’re postulating – I don’t know, a whole universe run on wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey –’ he waves a hand, unable to think of an adequate descriptor.

‘Crap?’ supplies Fenris, with just the tiniest quirk of smile.

Hawke smiles back more warmly than the situation merits. ‘Just so.’

‘As discipline, then,’ says Anders, spoiling what was almost, if you squinted, a Moment.

‘Then science would either explain magic, or it wouldn’t,’ Fenris says, still looking at Hawke. ‘But either way, we’ve established the opposite of your thesis, Anders: science can exist without magic, but magic can’t exist without science.’

Anders bristles. ‘Now who’s stacking hypotheticals on hypotheticals?’

‘Science is not a fucking hypothetical!’ Fenris says, swinging back to engage him, and just like that, they’re off again, bickering as though there’s a medal in it. Hawke stubborns it out as long as he can, then gives up and goes to grade his undergraduate essays, which, while containing roughly the same level of intemperate bullshit, he’s at least getting paid to deal with.

 

*

 

‘Want my unsolicited advice?’ says Aveline, eyeing him over her egg salad sandwich. She is, as usual, a bastion of comparative calm amidst the emotional whirlwind his life has been since Fenris joined the department, but that doesn’t mean she’s not her own type of challenge.

‘No,’ says Hawke. He prods sceptically at the plate of lumps which constitutes the cafeteria’s mac n’ cheese. ‘Should there be green in this? I’m fairly sure there shouldn’t be any green in this.’

‘Those are chives.’

‘Mouldy ones, maybe.’

‘Garrett,’ says Aveline, in a weary, withering tone that perfectly matches her rolled eyes, ‘just go and get laid, would you? Please? For me?’

‘Oh, well, if it’s for _you_ –’

‘For my sanity, yes! You’re starting to go peculiar.’ She takes a bit of her sandwich, chewing meaningfully.

Something sad and sour twists in Hawke’s gut. ‘It’s not an option,’ he says, curtly. ‘Believe me, if it was, I’d be first line, but as it’s not –’

‘It’s not?’ says Aveline, swallowing. And then, incredulous, ‘ _No_. Nooo. Oh, my sweet lord. Tell me you’re not this stupid.’

‘I live to disappoint, it seems.’

‘Hawke,’ she says, and _puts down her fucking sandwich_ , which is as serious as it gets. ‘Tell me, in fifteen words or less, what you think’s going on between Fenris and Anders.’

‘I can do it in three,’ says Hawke, bitterly. ‘Unresolved sexual tension.’

‘ _Ye_ esss,’ she says – slowly, like she’s waiting for the clue to drop. ‘And? So?’

Hawke clenches his jaw. ‘ So they’re into each other.’

‘What.’

‘You heard me.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Look, I don’t know what planet you’ve been living on, but from where I’m standing – ’

‘You are,’ says Aveline, in a tone that brooks no disagreement, ‘the dumbest, most oblivious dork in the long and storied history of dumb, oblivious dorks. Fenris and Anders _hate_ each other!’

‘But you just agreed –’

‘They’re into _you_ , you idiot! Both of them!’ She leans across and flicks his ear for emphasis.

‘Ow!’

‘Honestly!’ She folds her arms in disgust. ‘All that tension and bickering? They’re _rivals_. _For you_. And you, you big dumb Bambi, have been so busy moping whenever they lock horns that you’ve never noticed _why_.’

‘Bambi?’ says Hawke, to cover the sudden uptick in his pulse. ‘Really? I have an actual animal name, and that’s what you’re going with?’

Aveline reclaims her sandwich, letting her eyebrows speak for her as she takes a healthy bite. She chews slowly, staring at Hawke.

He cracks on the second mouthful.

‘Anders likes me?’ he says, weakly.

Aveline nods – a little bit sadly, which tells Hawke everything he needs to know about just how long the other man’s been pining for him. _Too_ long, Christ; and once upon a time, he probably would’ve reciprocated. Except –

‘And – and Fenris?’

Aveline nods again, gaze softening.

_Oh._

There is, quite suddenly, an insufficiency of air. Hawke lurches to his feet, chair scraping noisily on the floor, heart pounding. ‘I have to, uh – I, that is –’

Aveline waves her sandwich in amused, benevolent dismissal.

Hawke very nearly runs.

 

*

 

He finds Fenris in his office, slim wire glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he squints at an ageing textbook. He doesn’t instantly look up – the door is open, his back to the frame – which gives Hawke a moment in which to attempt to compose himself, but mostly just to stare, shamelessly, and wonder if he’s brave enough to do this. Aveline isn’t the type to set him up for rejection on purpose, but Fenris, in addition to being sharp and lean and beautiful, is damnably hard to read.

Hawke scuffs his shoe on the carpet, announcing his presence. Fenris doesn’t quite startle – he’s too composed for that – but turns quickly, eyes widening. He plucks off the glasses, sets them aside with a speed that says he’s ashamed of them, flushing just barely, and oh, god, this is the part where Hawke is meant to use his words, except he doesn’t have anything planned, he doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound naff or weird or irreverent –

‘Come to dinner with me,’ he blurts.

Fenris blinks. ‘All right,’ he says, and only through long observation does Hawke hear the hesitation in the droll reply. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘A date. I mean, it’s a date. With you. And me. If you, uh –’

He doesn’t get any further. In a single smooth motion, Fenris shoots up out of the chair and kisses him – gently, despite the momentum behind it, fingers curled around Hawke’s nape. Hawke makes an involuntary, needy noise best translated as _oh god yes, please, finally_ and kisses back, goosebumps breaking out on his arms as Fenris manhandles him back against the wall. Hawke doesn’t so much melt as liquefy, gripping the other man's hips as much to steady himself as for any more pleasurable reasons, and when they finally break apart – or stop kissing, at least; their bodies don't move – he’s shivering.

‘So,’ Fenris murmurs, smiling slightly against Hawke’s mouth. ‘Was it my impassioned defence of science that finally won you over, or is this just an especially fetching sweater vest?’

‘Neither,’ Hawke says, grip tightening. ‘I’ve wanted you for months. Just didn’t – god, didn’t think you wanted me.’

Fenris chuckles, runs a warm palm up his ribs. ‘Was I really so subtle?’

‘I, ah. Thought you were flirting with Anders.’

Fenris stills, and for an awful moment, Hawke thinks he’s ruined things. Then Fenris laughs, a rich, genuine sound that Hawke doesn’t think he’s ever heard before, and thrills at having elicited it.

‘You idiot,’ Fenris says, deadpan fond. ‘It’s just as well you’re pretty.’

 

*

 

‘So, who won the bet?’ Hawke asks Isabela, watching as she finally wipes _science vs magic_ off the whiteboard. It’s been three days. He feels like he’s fucking _glowing_.

‘Me, of course,’ she says, smugly. ‘Varric just caught Anders staring weepily at your Facebook status.’

Hawke feels a pang of guilt at that, but as though she can sense it, Isabela waves it off. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. He missed his shot, but romantic as he is, he’s also practical. He’ll get over it.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Isabela snorts. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, there’s a physical limit on how much wallowing my friends are allowed before I drag their asses to a strip club. It’s equal parts art and science.’

‘And science wins,’ says Fenris, smugly, and drops a kiss on Hawke's neck.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may have started playing Dragon Age II. 
> 
> I may be a total fucking dork.
> 
> Shut UP.


End file.
